


The Third Blessing

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Fairy Godmothers (Westeros style) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Author's drunken philosophy, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fairy Godparents, Fairy Tale Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-30 07:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “She shall be a great beauty,” the first fairy godmother said.“She shall have grace,” said the second.Jaime peered down at the babe. What use was beauty or grace or feminine strength, in such a world as this?“She will be strong as an aurochs,” he said, “and twice as stubborn.”**[Or; Jaime is Brienne's fairy godmother.]





	1. The Third Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this started out as crack and then turned serious. Completely unbeta-ed, because I'm impatient and impulsive. 
> 
> Warning for attempted non-con in part 4, but no more than what happened off-screen in ASOS/Season 3. Nothing comes of it.

Once upon a time, far, far away in the island kingdom of Tarth, a daughter was born to King Selwyn and his fair Queen Alys. 

A grand presentation was announced, and all the fairies that could be found on Tarth were invited to be godmothers to the little princess. In accordance with fairy custom of those days, during the feast the godmothers would each bestow upon her a blessing.

But Tarth was a small kingdom, and on all the beautiful Sapphire Isle there could be found only two fairies. 

“There must be three,” the fairies whispered amongst themselves. “There must always be three blessings, when a mortal princess is born.”

And so they petitioned the King of the Otherfolk, lord of the mighty fortress of Casterly Rock, to send another fairy to become the third godmother to the little princess. 

The King of the Uttermost West sent his golden son, Prince Jaime, to be their third.

** 

King Selwyn’s grand feast was held in beautiful Evenfall Hall. Though the outer walls were made of grim grey stone, the inside of the fortress was luxuriously furnished with marble floors and finely woven hangings, and the windows of the great hall were of gloriously coloured glass, so that the light shone through in shades of rich jewels. 

The entire island of Tarth had been invited to attend the presentation. The tables groaned with food: roast meat and fish; fresh bread; baked pies with golden-brown crusts; great bowls piled high with vegetables and fruit. The ale and mead and wine flowed freely, and soon the great hall was filled with the sounds of merriment and revelry.

The two fairies from Tarth were careworn, earthy creatures, concerned with the everyday magic of the smallfolk: they cared for the hard-working, practical villagers and fisherfolk and asked only small reward in return. They were content that King Selwyn had invited them to the feast, and happy to bestow generous blessings upon his daughter in turn. 

Prince Jaime, however, was the Prince of Faerie, shining and beautiful and cruel. His green eyes glittered with lazy amusement, his words were sardonic, and his smile cut like a knife. 

When the time came for the godmothers to bestow their blessings, the great hall fell silent in anticipation. Lady Alys brought forth the new babe, whom they had named Brienne, and presented her to the hall. 

The first fairy godmother, Mother Mohl, a wizened, grey-haired crone who lived in the deep forests, hobbled forward to peer short-sightedly at the cooing babe. “She shall be a great beauty,” Mother Mohl said. 

Her blessing settled on the babe like finest spider-silk, gossamer thin.

The second fairy godmother, Mistress Maeve, was lean and weather-beaten with tangled grey braids. She lived on an isolated shore by the sea in a driftwood hut. 

“She shall have grace,” Mistress Maeve said. 

Her blessing washed over the babe like a gentle wave.

Prince Jaime peered down at the babe in her mother’s arms, cooing gently and waving her tiny hands and feet. Brienne of Tarth was only seven days old, and she had her entire life ahead of her – a blank slate, with only two things written on her: beauty, and grace. 

And now it was his turn. Traditionally, the third blessing should be as flattering as the first two: a kind and gentle heart, perhaps, or feminine wisdom. 

And yet – 

He thought of Cersei, the most beautiful woman in Faerie, for all her fierce pride and wit sold to the new High King like a brood mare. He thought of the former High Queen, so regal and graceful, the highest lady in the land and still helpless against her husband. He thought of the former High Princess, so kind and with such gentle strength, but ultimately doomed. 

Gently, he reached down to the babe and rested his fingertip against her tiny cheek. She opened her eyes and stared up at him, and he could see that the blessings were at work: she would grow into a slender, pretty girl with blue eyes and honey gold curls. 

But what use was beauty or grace or feminine strength, in such a world as this? 

“She will be strong as an aurochs,” he finally said, “and twice as stubborn.” 

The crowd gasped. Queen Alys started, her eyes flying up to his. King Selwyn got up from his chair, starting towards him. 

Jaime stared them all down, his fingertip still resting against the babe’s cheek. 

“No man will take her against her will,” he continued. The babe cooed and giggled, and grasped at his finger with her tiny starfish hands. 

“No man will covet her, or own her, or force her to become what she does not wish to be.”

The power of his words tolled like a great bell in the hall. Unlike the blessings of the other two godmothers, Jaime’s settled over the babe with unbreakable force. 

“No,” Mother Mohl said, aghast, “you cannot –” and Mistress Maeve cried, “What have you done?” They threw their will against his, straining to stop his working, but it was too late – they could only soften it as best they could. 

And so the babe’s eyes became a clear, astonishing blue, as lovely as the Maiden’s. And as she grew, the girl Brienne would develop incredible hand-eye coordination and would run and swim and climb with extraordinary grace. 

But Jaime’s will prevailed. And as the years passed, she grew tall as a man and brutish strong, her hands big and calloused from sword and shield. She grew fierce and strong-willed, determined to use her great strength to protect others. And when she squared her shoulders and set her mind on a goal, nothing and no one could move her.


	2. The Blade

When Brienne was eight years old, after her little sisters died and her mother followed, after her brother Galladon drowned, Septa Roelle came to Tarth. 

Septa Roelle was cruel and horrid and made Brienne cry. She sneered and ridiculed Brienne for her love of the old stories and tales. She seized on the story of the fairy prince’s cruel blessing and said it meant that no man would ever want her. 

“Look in the mirror, girl,” she always said. “That’s all the proof you’ll ever need.” And Brienne would look in the mirror and see not her beautiful eyes but her mismatched features. She would see not her extraordinary grace and coordination but her huge body and unnatural strength. 

One day, Brienne could no longer take Septa Roelle’s constant harping. She ran sobbing out of the hall, down to the sheer cliffs overlooking the sea and scrambled down to the isolated shore where Mistress Maeve lived. 

The waters were always calm on Mistress Maeve’s shore. Fish swam willingly into her net, and the sea cast up its treasures on the sand. Her driftwood hut was a treasure house of tattered nets and old sea-glass, green and blue and gold, of strange shells and curious skeletons and smooth-polished oddities. 

The old sea-fairy was standing knee-deep in the water, singing softly under her breath. She turned when she saw Brienne, her welcoming smile fading when she saw Brienne had been weeping. 

“Why did the prince do this to me?” Brienne demanded. “Why was he so cruel?” 

Mistress Maeve clicked her tongue. “He is the golden Prince of Faerie,” she said. “He can do anything he pleases. His whims and wishes shape to world to his will, rather than the other way about.”

“But why did he curse _me?_” Brienne wailed. “I was only a babe.” 

“No, child,” Mistress Maeve said, shaking her head. “What Prince Jaime said had no ill intent behind it – it was a blessing and a well-wishing, same as mine and Mother Mohl’s. But what he meant by it – well, only he knows that.”

“I will ask him, then,” Brienne said stubbornly. “How do I summon him?” 

Mistress Maeve only chuckled. “Can you catch the wind?” she asked. “Can you cage a fire?” 

“How?” Brienne demanded. 

“Call him, child,” the old sea-fairy said. “Call him by his name. If it pleases him, he will come.”

** 

Brienne shouted herself hoarse, calling for Prince Jaime. 

She was still calling three days later. She had escaped from Septa Roelle and was running free in the forest, her skirts torn and dirtied and her hair hopelessly tangled. Between one moment and the next the fine hairs rose on the back of her neck and she became aware of a presence behind her. She turned to see – 

She’d thought he’d be something like Mother Mohl or Mistress Maeve: old and weathered, their power tangible but grounded in the earth and the air and the sea. 

The Prince of Faerie was the most gloriously handsome man she’d ever seen, tall and shining and golden, with green eyes like a cat’s. More than that, he was powerful, the vast force of his magic pressing against her like a weight on her skin. She shrank back a little, but he only stood, staring down at her, and looked – curious. 

“Well, girl?” he asked. “What do you want? I thought you’d never stop calling me.”

She drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “I want to know why you cursed me,” she said. 

The curiosity vanished, replaced by something – blank. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Did I curse you? I’m sure I would have remembered that.”

She glowered at him. “My name is Brienne of Tarth,” she said. 

“I know who you are,” he said. “I recognize your eyes.” 

She frowned, but let the strange comment pass. “You cursed me so that no man would ever want me.” 

His smile grew even more unpleasant. “I said,” he drawled, “that no man will covet you, or own you, or take you against your will. One day you’ll learn the difference.”

“But –” she thought on _she is mine, and I am hers,_ aware that her face was growing red with disappointment and frustration. “You made me ugly!” she wailed, her plaintive cry echoing in the forest. 

He only sighed. “I made you strong,” he said. “What use is beauty?” 

When she did not answer, he knelt down before her, so close that she could see that his skin shone dimly, that his eyes were pure, clear green, with no hint of brown or gold. “Listen,” he said, “beauty won’t spare you. Your father can’t always protect you. Gallant knights and the thin pretence of chivalry won’t keep you safe. This,” he said, drawing a long dagger from its sheath on his sword-belt and handing it to her, hilt-first, “is the only guarantee of safety in this world.” 

She stared at the fairy-steel blade, sharp enough to cut the wind. 

“Take it,” he said. 

Slowly, carefully, she reached out and took it.


	3. The Ball

Time passed on the sleepy isle of Tarth. 

Mother Mohl and Mistress Maeve watched over Brienne as she grew tall and strong and stubborn. Septa Roelle continued to harangue her, calling her unnatural and unladylike when she refused to give up her lessons with Ser Goodwin. She complained to King Selwyn and demanded that Brienne surrender her practice sword and the fairy-steel dagger that Prince Jaime had given her. 

The day after she beat Brienne for the first time and snatched the dagger from her by force, she mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again – no one mourned her, and no one noticed the appearance of one more frog croaking in the castle moat.

Brienne’s first betrothed died of a sickness. Her second betrothed rejected her in the cruelest possible way, and only barely escaped being turned into a sea slug by Mistress Maeve.

After that, Brienne threw herself furiously into her weapons practice. And there it was that she came into her own. The blessings of extraordinary strength and grace, added to an innate skill, meant that she was soon Ser Goodwin’s best student. He taught her everything he knew, praised her successes and criticized her mistakes, and soon she learned to measure her self-worth by her strength and her skill, rather than by her unfortunate looks. 

Still, her father King Selwyn kept hoping that he might find a husband for her before she became completely unmarriageable. 

Her third betrothed, old Ser Humphrey Wagstaffe, told her that no wife of his would ever dress in men’s clothes and ordered her to put down her sword and pick up her spindle. She was so angry, and so afraid of what she might do to a guest in her father’s keep, that she ran out of the hall to find her godmother. 

Mother Mohl’s cottage was deep in the woods, filled with strange herbs and plants and overgrown with flowering vines. Mice and small animals peered and chittered from gaps in the straw thatching. The old woman made her a cup of herbal tea and listened as she raged about the old man’s demands. 

“It’s not fair!” Brienne almost sobbed. “By what right does he demand that I give up the sword and become a proper woman? Just because he is a man!” 

“Do you want to marry him? Or give up the sword?” Mother Mohl asked. 

“No!” Brienne sat down heavily in a chair. 

“Then don’t.” Her godmother patted her hand. “What’s he going to do – beat you? You’re strong enough to snap him like a twig.” She cackled hoarsely, her old black eyes snapping with malicious amusement. “I think that’s what the Prince meant by your third and last blessing, my dear – he gave you strength enough for free will. Don’t be afraid to use it.” 

Brienne sighed. “All the maidens in the songs are beautiful and graceful,” she said, sniffling. “The bards don’t sing about strong women.”

“Well, perhaps they should,” Mother Mohl said. “Perhaps one day they’ll sing about you.” 

When she returned to Evenfall Hall, Brienne challenged the old man to a duel and broke his collarbone and three ribs. He departed, cursing her name, and she told her father that she would not marry any man who could not defeat her in single combat. Her father finally threw up his hands and promised to stop trying to marry her off. 

**

When Brienne turned sixteen years old, King Selwyn announced that there was to be a ball for her nameday. Great knights and lords of the Stormlands began arriving in the days leading up to the event, and on the morning of the ball, the lord of Storm’s End, Prince Renly Baratheon, came to Evenfall Hall. 

Peering down from her window at the arriving retinue, at the High King’s tall, dark-haired brother with his bright blue eyes and laughing smile, Brienne fell in love for the first time. 

Instead of joining her father to greet him, Brienne fled the castle and went to Mother Mohl and Mistress Maeve to ask whether they could brew her a love potion. 

“No,” said Mother Mohl bluntly. “It does no good to go meddling with the human heart. You’ll just have to win your young man the old-fashioned way.” 

“Love is the strongest force in all the world,” Mistress Maeve said. “It’s stronger than reason and more powerful than honour. You can’t force it, you can’t hold it against its will, and you can’t create it, not even with magic.”

Finally, Brienne called on her third godmother. 

The golden prince did not come immediately – he never did, when she summoned him – but suddenly materialized in her chamber hours later, as she was trying on gowns for the ball. 

“Good gods,” he drawled, “not the yellow velvet.”

She started, clutched the gown against her chest. “What are you doing here?” she hissed. The force of his presence struck her, as it always did, an almost physical pressure against her skin – a reminder that he was not human but Other.

He shrugged, cast himself down on a chair and fixed her with his lazy, unblinking green stare. “You summoned me,” he said. 

“This morning!” 

“And here I am. What do you want, goddaughter?” He grinned, showing sharp white teeth. 

“I need to make a man fall in love with me.” 

After she’d said it, she knew – she knew the unholy mockery that would fill his green eyes and curl in his smile. Her back stiffened, and she called on all of her stubborn resolve to withstand it. 

But even though he laughed, and even though his smile curled, there was something gentle in it. As though, perhaps, he understood – just a little. 

“None of us can choose who we love,” he said. “Not you, and not even me.”

She sighed, cast the yellow gown aside and sank down in the matching chair across from him. “That’s what the others say, too,” she said. “Does that mean there’s no hope?” 

“Oh, there’s always hope,” he said. “Though I’d say you’re facing an uphill battle with Renly.” He smiled as if at some private joke.

“Can you at least make me beautiful?” she asked in a small voice. 

This was an old, old argument between them. He drew in a long breath, rubbed his jaw – he had golden stubble, she realized, just like any other man – and sighed. 

“I could cast a glamour,” he said, “but what good would that do? Glamours and illusions fail. The truth always comes out.”

Her mouth trembled. She swallowed back tears. 

He swore under his breath. “Your eyes are beautiful, if nothing else,” he finally said. “We’ll start with a blue gown.”

** 

That night, Brienne danced with Prince Renly in a long blue gown that made the most of her height and managed to disguise her breadth. She was eye to eye – perhaps even taller – with the handsome lord; when they danced, he paid her a compliment, and she smiled shyly at him in turn, trying to hide her crooked teeth. 

When the whispers inevitably started, he kissed her hand and said that she should pay them no heed. 

When the music finally came to an end and the guests departed, she all but floated up the stairs to her chamber and sat down in her window seat, sighing up at the bright stars above. Humming under her breath, she hugged the memories of her dance with Prince Renly close, smiling dreamily to herself.


	4. Sapphires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted non-con. It's no more than what happened off-screen when Jaime and Brienne were captured by Locke/the Bloody Mummers, and nothing comes of it.

War broke out in Westeros. High King Robert Baratheon died, leaving a half-fairy heir with golden hair and green eyes, and Brienne went to fight for Prince – now King – Renly. Before she left Tarth, though, she sought out Mother Mohl and Mistress Maeve to receive their blessing. 

Mother Mohl gave her a bag of dried herbs for moon tea, and sat her down for a frank discussion concerning its use. Mistress Maeve gave her a dagger with a strange black blade made of rare dragonglass, washed smooth by the tide. 

She did not inform Prince Jaime. 

Brienne had not heard from him for the past year. He did not always come when she called, of course, but lately he had not come at all. Her two other godmothers only looked troubled when she asked if they knew where he was, and would not answer, and so she finally stopped trying to find out. 

Still, some part of her was worried. 

Finally she left the slow, placid waters of Tarth behind her, and stepped off her father’s ship onto the mainland: a world of swaggering knights and lords, cruel for the sake of cruelty, hot-blooded and impatient and contemptuous of all those weaker than themselves. Life was not like the songs, she slowly came to realise; in the songs all knights were honourable and all maidens beautiful. But real knights talked of women as prizes to be fought over and won and taken, objects not of courtly love but of brute lust. 

_What is beauty?_ Prince Jaime had asked.

_No man will covet you, or own you, or take you against your will._

At Highgarden, at the court of the golden roses, she watched King Renly wed the beautiful, doe-eyed Princess Margaery Tyrell. At the wedding feast, a cadre of young knights began to vie for her favours, bringing her flowers and calling her beautiful and trying to steal kisses from her. 

When Lord Tarly told her the true reason for their behaviour, she wept. 

But it only made her more stubbornly determined. 

At Bitterbridge, she fought and defeated all comers to claim the honour of the seventh and last place of King Renly’s Kingsguard. Days later, just as they were about to crush Stannis’ army, a shadow slipped into King Renly’s tent and murdered him as Brienne watched on, helpless – 

“No!” she wailed, throwing herself down to hold him as he died, “no, no, please.” 

But Catelyn Stark, the Dowager Queen of the North, dragged her up and forced her to flee. 

** 

At Riverrun, she found acceptance with Queen Catelyn and her son King Robb, and a place for herself among the armies of the North. When she was not guarding Queen Catelyn, she went out on patrols with the Northmen and the men of the Riverlands. 

And then one night, after the news of Winterfell’s loss and the death of her two young sons, the grieving Queen took Brienne with her to the dungeon, and there she saw – 

Prince Jaime, chained at wrist and ankle with thick iron shackles, a heavy iron collar encircling his neck. He was unshaven and covered with filth, but his skin was ghostly pale under the dirt, and the usual force of his presence was horribly muted. 

Queen Catelyn held up her lantern. “Kingslayer,” she said. 

Brienne made a choked, wounded sound deep in her throat. The Kingslayer, she thought. The unnatural, otherworldly creature who had slain Aerys Targaryen. The fairy brother – and lover – of the High Queen. 

The handsomest man in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Prince Jaime’s eyes snapped open, bright burning green, reflecting the torchlight like a cat’s. 

“Catelyn Stark,” he drawled, in his most hateful voice. “Have you come to take advantage of my chained state?” His eyes flicked to Brienne, standing behind Queen Catelyn, and he squinted at her for a moment, his mouth quirked in horrible irony. 

“And Brienne of Tarth,” he said, “of course. Well met – goddaughter.”

** 

As she rowed down the Trident the next morning, feeling the pull of the oars in her shoulders and back, Brienne considered her third fairy godmother. 

“You’re Ser Jaime Lannister,” she said accusingly. “You’re the Kingslayer.” 

“So I am,” he agreed, smiling with no warmth. “So I have been, since before you were even born.”

“You never told me,” she said. 

He tipped his head back, sighed. “Did you really not know?” 

She had not known. She had not suspected. She’d known him only as the golden Prince, her third otherworldly godmother, infuriating, elusive and unknowable. 

_Can you catch the wind?_ Mistress Maeve had said of him. _His whims and wishes shape to world to his will._

And yet here he was, weighed down with heavy iron shackles. Her captive. He had been caged in the dungeons of Riverrun for twelve long months, and it had weakened him to the point where she was strong enough to restrain him. 

“Did you really throw Brandon Stark from a tower window?” she demanded. 

She didn’t want to know. 

“Yes,” he said. 

**

When the Bloody Mummers ambushed them, she fought desperately, killing four and wounding a number of others, but they swarmed her and brought her down. They took her weapons, bound her and dragged her and Ser Jaime back to their camp. She glowered at them, struggling to free herself from her ropes, and watched as they ate and drank and grew steadily drunker, their comments progressing from obscene to truly vile. 

When they seized her and dragged her into the woods, she fought and screamed and thrashed, throwing herself desperately against her chains in an attempt to flee. But they held her down and pawed at her, tearing at her armour. 

She raged and cursed and kicked and bit, and finally she threw her head back and screamed out for Prince Jaime – the Kingslayer –

_No man will take her against her will,_ he had said. 

He had blessed her in the cradle with those very words. She had believed it all her life, an unspoken assurance even before she knew the full truth of what it meant. 

He was bound with iron shackles, weakened after a year of imprisonment. She knew that he could not help her. And yet – 

_“Jaime!”_ she screamed, pleading as she exhausted herself trying to fight off her attackers. _“Please!”_

And then, just as her indomitable strength began to falter, she heard a drawling voice call out “SAPPHIRES!”


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who have already read chapters 1 to 4, I've gone back and made a few changes, just for added consistency with these last two instalments and to make the lines scan easier. I've also changed "christening" to "presentation".

After their departure from Harrenhal, the final leg of their journey to King’s Landing was relatively easy. 

If once Prince Jaime’s whims and wishes had shaped the world to his will, the iron shackles and his long imprisonment had weakened him, and the loss of his sword hand had crippled him more than physically. 

“When will you recover your magic?” Brienne asked, late one night as they lay curled around each other for warmth. She curled her fingers around his wrists, scarred by the long proximity to his iron shackles. Such intimacy between them was no longer unthinkable. They had both endured far worse, since the Bloody Mummers had taken them.

“Who knows?” he shrugged. “Perhaps tomorrow, or in a month or a year – so few of us survive iron poisoning and such long imprisonment.”

“You did,” she pointed out. 

(_Live,_ she had whispered to him at his lowest point. _Be strong as an aurochs, and twice as stubborn._ She had placed her hand on his heart, felt the thready, faltering beat of his pulse, and had tried desperately to hold him, to stop him from slipping away. 

He’d blinked at her, his eyes unfocused and glazed over with fever, and smiled. “Are you well-wishing _me,_ goddaughter?” he’d asked faintly.) 

“Barely,” he said. 

“And yet you still came back for me,” she insisted. “You stood between me and the bear, unarmed, powerless –”

“You called for me,” he said, twining the fingers of his left hand with hers. “I will always come when you call.”

**

When Brienne was older than a mere girl and not yet a maiden, as she still wavered between mistrust of the golden Prince and fascination, Mistress Maeve had told her a story. “A story about Tyrion, the youngest Prince of Faerie,” the old sea-witch had said, “but it says a great deal about Prince Jaime, as well.”

The tale went like this:

Once, long ago, the King of the Uttermost West had been a happier, gentler man. He fell in love with a golden princess and made her his Queen, and in the fullness of time she gave birth to twin golden children, a beautiful princess and a strong, handsome prince, as alike as two peas in a pod. 

The King loved his wife and his children above all other things. At their grand presentation, when the children were presented to the world, no less than seven lords and ladies of Faerie attended the newborn babes to grant them their blessings. 

When the Queen grew round with child once more, all of Faerie rejoiced. 

But when the babe was born, he was so monstrous and twisted that the Queen died in the birthing of him. The grieving King, heart-broken, could not bear to look upon his new son, haunted by the memory of his beloved Queen. 

But though the King and the Princess blamed the youngest Prince for their mother’s death, Prince Jaime looked upon the new babe, so innocent and helpless despite his misshapen form, and felt nothing but love. 

“He’s just an innocent babe,” he said to his sister. “He cannot be blamed for our mother’s death.”

“He’s a twisted monster,” Princess Cersei said. “We should smother him in the cradle and put an end to him.”

Neither the King nor the Princess wished to acknowledge the youngest Prince by presenting him to the world. But Prince Jaime was determined that his brother would not be denied. 

“He is a Prince of Faerie, no matter what anyone else says,” he said. “It is his birthright.” 

And so he went to the wise maester of Casterly Rock and begged his counsel. 

“If the King will not present him, young master,” old Maester Creylen had said, “then you must do it yourself. When Prince Tyrion is seven days old you must take him to the courtyard, and there, where the entire castle can see, you must present him as your brother and the Prince of Faerie.”

“But what about the blessings?” Prince Jaime asked. “There must always be seven blessings, when a Prince or Princess of Faerie is born.”

The maester considered this. “I will grant the child my blessing,” he said, “and you will be the second. The gods will put the others in your way. Therefore you must ask the first five fairies you see in the courtyard to stand as the other godmothers to the young Prince.” 

Prince Jaime nodded solemnly. 

On the seventh day, Prince Jaime and old Maester Creylen went to the nursery and ordered the young, fearful wetnurse to bring young Prince Tyrion into the great courtyard of Casterly Rock. There Prince Jaime cast about for the first five fairies he could see. 

His eye fell upon Fat Magda, the mistress of the kitchens, red-faced, jolly and kind, who always had a kind word and a sweet roll for him. He saw Milla, a pretty, giggling serving wench with a saucy eye and a swelling bosom, and Bronn, a cold-eyed sell-sword with a wry, crooked smile. He saw a young boy from a travelling band of mummers, crossing the courtyard on his way to a pair of gaily painted wagons. 

And when the babe began to cry, he turned back to see the wetnurse shushing him, crooning a soft lullaby, and putting him to her breast. 

And so on that day when young Prince Jaime announced to the crowded courtyard that he was here to present his brother, Prince Tyrion, to the world, full seven blessings were granted to the young Prince as he slept in his wetnurse’s arms. 

“He shall have a keen wit,” Maester Creylen intoned. 

Fat Magda cooed and smiled warmly at the babe. “He shall have a prodigious appetite,” she said. 

“He shall be generously endowed,” pretty, saucy Milla announced, giggling. “And he shall never fail to please.”

Bronn, the sell-sword, squinted down at the babe and said: “He shall always land on his feet. He’ll need to be a lucky bastard to survive this world.” 

The mummers’ boy looked wide-eyed and properly solemn, and gave the babe the highest blessing he knew. “He shall have a silver tongue,” he said. 

The wetnurse, cradling the babe in her arms, smiled mistily down at him. “He will grow strong and healthy,” she whispered, “no matter how he was born,” and well-wished him with all her might. Had her power been stronger than a mere will-o-the-wisp, her blessing might have held considerable force. 

Finally it was Prince Jaime’s turn. He looked down at his sleeping brother, rested his fingertip against the soft, tiny cheek. “He shall be loved,” he said. 

Thus was Prince Tyrion, the youngest Prince of Faerie, presented to the world.


	6. Oathkeeper

Long weeks after their departure from Riverrun, they arrived in King’s Landing. There Brienne was met with the news that the world – and the war – had been irrevocably changed on their long journey. The haunting refrain of _The Rains of Castamere_ echoed from every tavern and sounded on every street corner. The tale of the Red Wedding was everywhere, the details of King Robb’s macabre end repeated over and over with ghoulish delight. 

She would have despaired, but some part of her was still numb from the successive shocks of King Renly’s death, her desperate struggle against the Bloody Mummers, Prince Jaime’s maiming and terrible decline, and the terrifying ordeal in the bear pit at Harrenhal. 

They were met with even worse news upon their arrival at the Red Keep: Arya Stark had long since fled the city, and Sansa Stark was wed to Prince Jaime’s younger brother, Tyrion. 

“What do we do now?” she asked, at the end of a very long day. “How will you fulfill your oath to Queen Catelyn?” She felt – exhausted. Drained of purpose and will. 

She and Prince Jaime were sitting at a wrought copper table on the balcony of her hastily assigned chambers, overlooking the city below. The table was set with an overflowing bowl of ripe fruit and a flagon of Dornish wine.

“Drink, until you can’t remember anything,” Prince Jaime said, filling her goblet, the flagon held carefully in his left hand. “We’ll think about it in the morning. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

She drank, and grimaced at the sour taste. He tapped the silver stem of her goblet with his finger, and she felt a slow, cautious trickle of power, so different from his normal effortless magic. 

Still, it was enough to turn the sour Dornish red into finest Arbor gold. 

This time she drank deeply, and welcomed the slow feeling of heavy lassitude that wine always brought her. As the sun set low and crimson in the west and a cool breeze came in from the sea, with Prince Jaime sitting beside her, golden in the fading light, she drank until she could almost forget. 

** 

A week later and they were still no closer to a solution. Prince Jaime had not come to visit her since that first night, seemingly caught up in the preparations for the royal wedding. 

Brienne had tried to gain access to Princess Sansa, but had been firmly – albeit politely – denied. Without Prince Jaime’s influence, she was friendless and alone in the Red Keep – or so she thought, until she received a message from King Renly’s widow Margaery, who was now betrothed to High King Joffrey. 

Her heart in her mouth, remembering the time when Margaery had been her Queen – had it only been scant months ago? – Brienne unsealed the wafer and saw that she had been invited to dine in the gardens. 

Dining in the gardens at King’s Landing meant an elaborate set up of stained glass lanterns casting jewel-coloured light, elaborately carved chairs and a table laden with rich food and fine wines. Brienne remembered the midnight masques and revelries in the rose-gardens at Highgarden, the handsome knights and beautiful ladies dancing in silk and velvet finery under the shining moon and the jewel-bright stars. 

“Princess Brienne,” Queen – Princess – Margaery rose and embraced her. “You are welcome here. Please – sit,” she said, seating Brienne at her right hand. “You must meet my grandmother, Queen Olenna Tyrell,” she said. 

The notorious Queen of Thorns was one of the great ladies of Faerie. She bore the appearance of a small, harmless old woman, but her eyes were bright and fierce and she had the same powerful presence that Prince Jaime had once had. 

Brienne bowed deeply. She knew when she was in the presence of power. 

Queen Olenna took one look at Brienne and burst into delighted laughter. “Oh, my dear, you are utterly singular. Come, let me look at you.”

Brienne rose and knelt before the old fairy Queen, as she had occasionally knelt before Mother Mohl and Mistress Maeve. 

(Strange. She had never knelt before Prince Jaime.)

A touch on her cheek, a low hum, and Queen Olenna’s bony fingers pinched her chin. “Tell me, Princess Brienne,” she said, “why does the power of Casterly Rock run in your blood and your bones? What blessings did you receive in your cradle, child?” 

Brienne’s shoulders tensed. Though she could not say why, she did not wish to reveal the strange truth of her third blessing; something told her to keep it close. 

“Oh, yes!” Princess Marjorie clapped her hands, breaking the tension. “Tell us your blessings, my dear Brienne. I was given beauty and wit and charm. I do think they’re a felicitous combination, don’t you? Oh Sansa darling, what were you given?”

The Queen of Thorns released Brienne’s chin and allowed her to stand. For the first time, Brienne realized that there was a third guest at the table: a tall, beautiful girl with copper-red hair and blue eyes, who could be no other than Queen Catelyn’s daughter. 

Princess Sansa looked pale and subdued, and her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been weeping. But not even she could resist Princess Margaery’s coaxing, charming, mischievous smile. “I was given beauty and grace and resilience,” she said shyly. “Resilience is a common blessing in the North.”

“There, you see!” Princess Margaery placed a dainty hand over Brienne’s. “Now, what about you?” 

“I – I was also given beauty and grace,” Brienne stammered, “but my third blessing overruled the first two.”

“It must have been very powerful,” Princess Margaery said, her eyes bright. “Go on.”

Brienne bit her lip and looked down. “Strength,” she said. “Strength, and free will.”

There was a moment of silence. “Well,” said Lady Olenna. “That certainly is remarkable.” 

**

After the candlelit meal, Brienne seized the chance to speak with Princess Sansa. The young girl watched her with wary eyes, poised to flee; Brienne could only say that she had been sworn to her mother, the Queen in the North, and that she was at Sansa’s service if she ever needed assistance. 

All she got in return was an empty, practiced smile and hollow courtesies. 

** 

Things went on in much the same vein, until the day of the royal wedding. 

Brienne stood in the back of the great sept as the young High King Joffrey – as golden and beautiful as his mother, as his true father – draped his cloak over Princess Margaery’s pale white shoulders and made her High Queen. 

The Queen of Thorns watched on, smiling indulgently. She looked at Brienne only once, a curious, calculating glance, her eyes flicking from Brienne to Prince Jaime and back again. 

Princess Sansa stood beside her new husband, whom the people of King’s Landing called the Imp. Brienne remembered of the youngest Prince of Mistress Maeve’s tale, and thought he did not look at all like a monster. He looked – protective – of Princess Sansa. 

Prince Jaime stood beside his sister High Queen Cersei – the Dowager High Queen now – and did not look once in Brienne’s direction. Seen together, they were tall, golden creatures utterly otherworldly in their mirrored beauty.

The great King of the Uttermost West watched the entire proceedings through cold, hooded green eyes, and the force of his presence was so powerful it made Brienne’s bones ache. 

** 

At the reception, Prince Jaime’s beautiful golden sister sought Brienne out. 

“Your grace,” Brienne said, bowing her head. The force of the Dowager High Queen’s presence – though not so powerful as her father’s – was as considerable as Prince Jaime’s, and much fiercer. 

“Princess Brienne,” the golden Queen said. Her voice was low, and rich, and strangely compelling. Brienne’s eyes flew up to the Queen’s fierce green ones, and she realised that the Queen was trying to glamour her. If she fell a victim to that voice, who knew what would happen to her? 

Instinctively, she glanced towards Prince Jaime for assistance, but even as she caught his eye she knew she had made a mistake. 

“How is it that you know my brother, my dear?” the Queen asked sweetly. “It must be very well.”

Brienne swallowed. “We travelled through the Riverlands together, your grace,” she answered cautiously. “We were captured together. He saved my life.” 

“But surely your acquaintance must be older than that?” the Queen leaned in, drew in her breath as though she was smelling perfume dabbed in the hollow of Brienne’s throat. “His magic is sunk deep in your blood and your bones,” she breathed, her eyes burning green. “And I have even felt your paltry attempts at well-wishing on his skin.”

Brienne’s pulse raced, a panicked response to the Queen’s roiling power and vicious smile. 

“Ah, sweet sister,” a drawling voice interrupted them. “Terrorising the wedding guests, I see. But who is this magnificently tall lady?” 

Brienne looked down to see Prince Tyrion, his hair as gold as his siblings’, one eye as green as Prince Jaime’s and the other strangely black. 

“Little brother,” the Queen said, utterly without affection. 

“Prince Tyrion, I am Princess Brienne of Tarth,” Brienne said, seizing on the interruption. “Prince Jaime talks about you often, and fondly.” 

“As often and as fondly as I talk about him, no doubt,” the youngest Prince said. “But come, Princess Brienne, and tell me all the good things he says.” 

He reached his hand up, and she clasped it in hers with almost unseemly haste. As they made their escape, she felt the Queen’s fierce green gaze on her every step of the way. 

When they were out of her sight, she let out a long, drawn out sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I was – she –”

“Yes, I know,” he said easily. “No need to thank me – my dear, overprotective brother sent me to rescue you.”

She smiled, involuntarily, and Prince Tyrion’s gaze became suddenly intent. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, I think you must tell me everything, Princess Brienne of Tarth.”

But just then, High King Joffrey’s voice rang out, calling for the entertainment. Prince Tyrion heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I must return to the high table,” he said reluctantly. “I have no doubt the entertainment will be unmissable.”

She smiled warmly at him and watched as he made his way back to the dais, feeling oddly fond of him after just the one short encounter. 

That was the last time she would see him for many, many years. 

** 

After the furor of the wedding, after Princess Sansa fled and Prince Tyrion was arrested for regicide, Prince Jaime called her into his chambers. 

He looked uncommonly grim, his mouth set in a stern line and his eyes serious. 

“I have a gift for you, goddaughter,” he said. 

She frowned. “It’s not my nameday.” 

One corner of his mouth quirked up, but there was no humour in it. 

“Think of it as a reward,” he said. “You saved my life, and we Lannisters always –”

“There is no debt between us,” she said hotly. 

“No?” He shrugged. “Then think of it what you will. But you cannot stay in King’s Landing. Go find another handsome young prince to follow. Go find the missing Stark daughters. Go back to Tarth, for all I care. Just –”

“You’re sending me away?” she demanded. 

He sighed. “Here,” he said, “for you.” He lifted a long, sheathed sword in his arms, drawing the blade partly out of its scabbard to reveal perfectly balanced, spell-wrought fairy steel, sharp enough to cut the wind. 

“Oh,” she breathed, despite herself. 

“My father had this and another blade re-forged from Ice, the ancient sword of the Kings of the North.” He smiled, a shadow of his old mockery. “Made by the finest smiths in Faerie. He wanted to give it to me, but alas, it’s far too late – ” 

He ran his finger down the gleaming edge of the blade, deliberately nicking the skin. She cried out in protest, but he drew away to reveal a thin line of crimson blood, trembling on the edge of his finger. She held her breath as he pressed the blood to the blade, drew a ward on the maiden steel. 

She felt the power flow through him, thick and strong, as the ward glowed white-hot and then faded into nothingness. He re-sheathed the blade with slow care and laid it down on the table between them. 

“And here,” he said again, turning to pull a draping white cloth from a stand in the corner, unveiling set of gleaming dark blue armour. This time he pressed his entire left palm to the breastplate, his finger still bleeding sluggishly. The power came eagerly to his call as he warded the spell-wrought steel with all his strength. 

When he lifted his hand away, she could see the slowly fading imprint of his palm, pressed over the area that would protect her heart.

“Oh,” she said again.

“Take them,” he said. “Take them – and go.” And she remembered him kneeling before her, long ago, when he had gifted her with her very first blade. 

_The only guarantee of safety in this world,_ he’d said. 

“Just tell me,” she asked quietly. “Are you sending me away for your sake, or for mine?” 

He looked at her. “For both our sakes,” he replied, with devastating simplicity. 

“Jaime,” she said. “If I call you again – will you come?”

He was silent for a long, long time. 

And then – 

“Always,” he said. 

** 

She took the sword and the armour, the mare and the king’s authority and the bag of silver and gold, and she even took young Podrick Payne. 

They were gifts from her fairy godmother, and she knew better than to refuse. 

But she felt as though she left something far more precious behind her. 

As they set out north on the Kingsroad, the sword – Oathkeeper – at her side and the armour encasing her, she could not help but turn back. 

He was watching her, his hand raised in farewell. The last rays of the sun shone on his golden hair, illuminating him: Ser Jaime Lannister, the beautiful, golden, elusive Prince of Faerie, impossible to hold. Even now, after the loss of his hand and a great deal of his power, she still felt as though he was slipping through her fingers, torn in a different direction.

_Can you catch the wind?_

No. 

But she knew that if she called him, he would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have read and left comments and kudos! Your lovely feedback is always very much appreciated.


End file.
